


I Am Not A Robot

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: F/M, Sentient Jaegers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gipsy Danger is broken, and Striker Eureka is the only one who can repair her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic set after the war ends, but Striker and Gipsy are still alive, and Crimson Typhoon and Cherno Alpha were repaired after being destroyed. Don't ask me how Striker and Gipsy survived. They just did. It makes my life (and the writing of this fanfic) easier.

**Chapter One**  
Gipsy didn’t think much about the past or the future. For her, it was always the _now_ , the present, what was happening around her at any given moment. She didn’t like to focus on unnecessary details and instead got straight to the point. She was straightforward, precise, always thinking about the present and not before or after. That’s who she was. Right on target.

So why was she sitting on a tiny island just off the Chinese coast, staring at her feet, thinking about the past and the future at the same time?

Striker sat on a Hong Kong beach, staring across the water at Gipsy’s hunched back. He wondered why she was thinking about. Ever since the War ended, she had been really quiet. She didn’t say more than a few words to anybody. The island had become her sanctuary, and she wouldn’t let anybody—Jaeger, pilot, or any animal that wasn’t a bird—come near her. She wouldn’t even talk to Raleigh or Mako. Striker didn’t understand what had happened. The War was over, right?

“Hey,” Gipsy said, her voice carrying across the water and startling Striker out of his thoughts. “I know you’re there.”

For a moment, Striker didn’t know what to do. Should he leave? Should he stay? Should he say something? Gipsy looked so … dejected, he couldn’t just leave. But it seemed like she wanted him to, by the way she said “I know you’re there”, like she was annoyed by his presence.

“Well,” Gipsy turned around and, for the first time in days, Striker actually saw her face. “Can’t you walk? Get over here.”

At first Striker was so surprised at Gipsy actually saying more than five words to him—to anybody—to move. And she was inviting him to the island? This either meant Gipsy was finally breaking out of her slump or she had been taken over by some sort of hostile spirit. Striker desperately hoped it was the first one, because if it were the second, then that would be very scary.

“Are you coming?” Gipsy sounded annoyed now.

 _Striker, you idiot. Get over there._ He got to his feet and was about to step into the ocean when he stopped, put his foot down and regarded Gipsy warily. She was watching him.

“Is this is a trick?” he asked.

Gipsy swung her feet around and slowly stood up, knee-deep in the ocean and staring at him from across at least a hundred yards of water. “Why would this be a trick?” she asked. She sounded genuinely confused, and that just made Striker feel very, very sorry for her.

“You haven’t spoken to anyone in three days,” Striker explained. “And you haven’t let anybody come near you, let alone on that island, for twice as long. Why are you suddenly speaking again?”

The moment he spoke the words, he immediately felt bad. Gipsy looked both offended and heartbreakingly weary at the same time. Though the ocean crashed around them and a steady stream of noise came from the city behind Striker, to him it felt like the quietest moment of his entire life. He took a step forward.

“Do you still want me to … go over there?” Striker stopped, feeling inexplicably awkward.

Gipsy tilted her head at him. “Do you still want to?”

Striker thought about that. Did he want to? Gipsy would most likely lash out at him or say something terribly sad and awkward as soon as he stepped foot onto that island, and he would have to spend the next few hours just sitting there watching her rant and cry. Or Gipsy would fall completely silent and simply stare at him with that sad, sad expression and he would be forced to leave to avoid any awkward situations. Nobody could really tell with Gipsy anymore.

But then again, Gipsy was his friend. He wanted her to be better, he wanted her to talk again and laugh and be the Gipsy he used to know, not this … this shell. This ghost of what she used to be. Even now she was staring at him emptily, as if she couldn’t even see him, though she had spoken to him not two minutes ago.

“Yes,” Striker replied. 

Gipsy just looked at him, as if it were obvious what he was supposed to do. Which it was. Striker sighed quietly and took another step into the ocean. The water crashed around him, drowning out the city behind him. Now it was just him, the ocean, and the island. And Gipsy, of course. Always Gipsy and the way she looked at him so sadly, as if all hope was lost, even though the kaiju had been defeated. This only made Striker more determined to help her somehow.

“Striker,” Gipsy said just as he neared the island.

He sighed and looked up at her (curse the height difference). She was regarding him warily. Striker imagined she was reconsidering having invited him onto the island.

But all she said was, “Other side,” and tilted her head toward the part of the island that faced away from the coast and the city. “Away from the people,” she added quietly.

 _“Away from the people”. Gipsy, what happened to you?_ The full weight of what happened finally settled onto Striker. Gipsy used to love humans, always wanted to be piloted, always wanted to be talked to and coddled and praised by humans. Now she turning away from them, hiding away on an island inhabited only by birds and ants. Striker stared at her. He could feel his heart slowly dropping to the bottom of the ocean. Poor Gipsy. Something was really wrong.

Striker turned slightly and began curving around to the other side of the island.

Gipsy turned as well and matched him stride for stride. When they finally got to the other side, Gipsy simply sat down, sticking her feet out in the water like she always did when she sat by the ocean. At least that part of her hadn’t changed.

Striker stepped onto the beach and sat down carefully next to her. She didn’t say anything, just stared out at the endless ocean in front of them with that empty expression on her face again.

“Gipsy.”

She slowly turned to look at Striker.

“Why don’t you talk anymore?” Might as well start somewhere.

Gipsy’s yellow-orange visor flickered, then went dark. “What do you mean?” she asked. Was that a hint of nervousness he heard in her voice?

“You know what I mean, Gipsy,” Striker replied. “You don’t say anything anymore, and when you do it’s hardly more than a few words. What happened to you?” _You used to be so talkative_ , he added silently. He felt that saying any more would just make her cry or punch him. Yeah, probably punch him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gipsy murmured.

Striker sighed. “You don’t want to talk about anything. And you don’t.”

Gipsy fell silent and looked away. Her visor darkened even more.

 _Great. You blew it._ Striker frantically searched for something to say. He couldn’t just give up now. Gipsy was finally talking, even if it weren’t the way she used to.

“Please go away,” Gipsy said.

There. Another way Gipsy had changed. The old Gipsy would have glared and ordered him angrily to get out. This Gipsy just looked at him sadly and asked him to please go away. This fact made Striker not want to go away at all.

“No,” Striker replied. “I’m not leaving you like this. You need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Gipsy put her hands in the sand and pushed herself up to a standing position. Again with that empty expression. She turned away from him and began to wade through the shallows.

“Gipsy—come on—” Striker leaped to his feet as fast as a thousand tons of metal could possibly leap, and followed after her. “Don’t leave. You don’t have to be like this. You saved the entire world! You used a _boat_ as a sword, okay? You are amazing. You don’t need to act like this.” He reached out his hand toward her arm to stop her.

“Don’t touch me.”

Striker pulled his arm back.

Gipsy turned her head toward him. “You can have the island. It isn’t mine anymore.” Then she turned back around and headed toward the mainland.

 _Gipsy._ Striker stared after her, feet planted in the ocean floor, still under the shade of the trees that hung over the island. Gipsy continued toward Hong Kong, head bowed, barely moving. _Gipsy … you have fallen so far._ He took a step forward, then stopped. But hadn’t he as well? Following her around like a dog, trying to comfort her though there was nothing there to comfort, trying to _empathize_ with her when she was really, completely gone.

But she wasn’t gone. Striker believed it. There was Gipsy in there, hidden under that metal plating. Hidden under that terrible, heartbreaking empty expression. Maybe it was just a tiny impulse that kept her from really breaking, tucked away in a dark corner of her mind. But Gipsy was there. She was. Gipsy wasn’t gone. There was a bit of her left … somewhere.

Striker watched as Gipsy stepped onto mainland, water streaming from her shoulders.

_And I’m going to find it._


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**  
Raleigh sat in the dining hall, nervously chewing on his spoon even though he had licked it free of all soup at least five minutes ago. His foot bounced up and down, occasionally banging into the table and making a loud rattling sound. The rest of the people in the room could almost feel his nervous energy buzzing in the air, but they didn’t question it. They knew exactly why he was so jumpy, and left him alone for it.

Mako appeared in the doorway.

Raleigh shot to his feet. “Anything?” he asked hopefully.

Mako shook her head. “She won’t say a word. She just looks at me really sadly.” She paused, then added, “Striker says she talked to him a little bit yesterday, but—”

Raleigh didn’t hear the last bit. He was out the door at the words “she talked”.

He didn’t understand why Gipsy had suddenly stopped talking. During the battle with Leatherback, and the face-off against Otachi, she had been wonderfully responsive and almost gleefully followed his and Mako’s orders to punch, swing, run, anything really. And even during the mission to destroy the Breach, she had marched out there happily, not warily but determinedly like Striker had. But after the war ended, after everything was finally solved and the world was saved, Gipsy just … well, she had resurfaced after the mission with that empty expression on her face, and it hadn’t left since. Raleigh loved Gipsy—she was his pride and joy. He didn’t want her to keep going the way she was. He was determined to figure out what was wrong and how to fix it.

Striker was attempting to skip enormous flat rocks over the crashing ocean waves when Raleigh emerged into the open sun. He hurried down the slope toward a huge flat plateau-like rock that jutted on into the ocean near Striker. “Hey!” he called as he neared the cliff. “Striker!”

Raleigh was momentarily struck dumb when Striker turned to look at him. An empty expression had taken over Striker’s face too—but then Raleigh realized it was just a look of concentration and not hopelessness. He shook his head slightly. _You have to stop seeing Gipsy’s expression everywhere. It’s not healthy._

“Hi, Raleigh,” Striker greeted him.

“Have you seen Gipsy?” Raleigh yelled over the crashing of the waves.

Striker raised a hand and pointed toward the ocean. “She’s … swimming, I think,” he replied. Raleigh followed Striker’s gaze. At first he couldn’t see anything, but then he noticed Gipsy’s head bobbing up and down with the waves. She did seem to be swimming, but the new Gipsy never did anything but sit there. She was probably just floating there sadly.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Raleigh shouted.

Striker shrugged. “Sure.” He sat down right where he was standing so that he was at eye level with Raleigh, who was still standing on the edge of the cliff. “Hey,” he said to Raleigh. “You should probably sit down or step back from the edge, you know. You might fall.”

Raleigh snorted. “That’s the last thing I care about right now.” But he did sit down anyway. “Tell about your conversation with Gipsy yesterday.”

Striker sighed. “If you could even call it a conversation. She hardly said anything. Sure, she said more than she has in a week combined, but still less than … than she should be.”

Raleigh refused to give up. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Striker looked to where Gipsy was still “swimming”. She was facing away from them, slowly floating toward the island, even though she had said it “wasn’t hers anymore”. He looked back at Raleigh and sighed again, then began, “I was sitting on the beach watching Gipsy sitting on that island of hers—”

“Why were you watching Gipsy?” Raleigh interrupted.

“—and after a while she said, ‘I know you’re there’ and I was about to leave when she said, ‘Well, can’t you walk? Get over here,’ so I got up,” Striker continued, completely ignoring Raleigh because the answer would be the most awkward thing in the world. “I was just stepping into the ocean when I thought twice about it and asked her if it was a trick. And she asked me why it would be a trick.”

“Because you haven’t talked for days?” Raleigh sighed.

“Right, exactly, so I told her that.” Striker was relieved that Raleigh didn’t press more about why he was watching Gipsy in the first place. “And she looked so unbearably sad I just … well, I ended up going over there. When I got there, she told me to go to the other side, away from … you people. Which is weird, because she loves people. But I didn’t want to risk her getting mad and kicking me out or something, so I went around to the other side.”

“And then?” Raleigh prompted.

“That’s really it. I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t say anything, just ‘I don’t know what you mean’ and ‘Go away’ and things like that. Eventually she just got up and left.” Striker shrugged. “There’s not much I can tell you. She’s still the same.”

Raleigh shook his head. “No. Gipsy spoke—that’s the important part. At least she finally did that. We need to make her keep talking so we can figure out what’s wrong.” He paused, then looked up at Striker. “Hey—you should keep talking to her. I mean, she spoke to _you_ , so maybe … if you keep approaching her she’ll eventually tell you what’s wrong?”

Striker stared at him for a very long time. Raleigh wondered what he was thinking. 

“Do you think that’s going to work?” Striker asked.

Raleigh shrugged. “What else do you suggest? We need to—” Raleigh cut himself off when he noticed Striker staring at something out in the ocean. Raleigh followed Striker’s gaze. It was Gipsy. Her head was still bobbing on the waves, but now it was staring straight at the two of them.

Raleigh immediately shut up, as did Striker. They both returned Gipsy’s stare, twice as hard. There was a long silence. 

After a while, Gipsy turned slowly back around and began to swim toward the island.

“Yes,” Striker whispered so that Gipsy couldn’t hear. “Yes, I’ll do it. I don’t care if it doesn’t work, I just want that empty expression gone. I can’t bear it.”

“I can’t eith—” Raleigh almost had a heart attack when he looked back at Striker and saw the Jaeger staring back at him emptily and hopelessly. Then Raleigh blinked a couple of times and it was gone, replaced by Striker's usual thoughtful look. _Goddammit, Raleigh! You need to stop that!_

Later, when Raleigh bumped into Mako in the halls of the Shatterdome and Mako asked him what happened, he simply asked Mako: “Do you think Jaegers are capable of having crushes? Because if I’m not mistaken …”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the crap that was Chapter 2. I don't even know what I was thinking when I wrote that, but hey, it continued the story, didn't it? I promise I won't post anything that terrible again ahhhhh okay now go comment or leave kudos or something (*whispers* please comment I love comments they and Raleigh's dorky giant sweaters are my life).

**Chapter Three**  
Cherno Alpha was sitting on the rock again. That damned rock. Striker hated it. It jutted out of the sea about a mile down the coast from the Shatterdome, and was flat enough that Cherno Alpha could sit on it safely without sliding off. Striker hated that rock. He hated it so much.

Cherno was even worse than Gipsy. After having being literally ripped apart by kaiju and subsequently losing both of her pilots, she became … a machine. She didn’t talk at all, not even a single word. She just sat on that rock and stared at the ocean. She wouldn’t even move. She hadn’t budged since she had first sat down on that _goddamned rock_.

When he thought about it, both Crimson Typhoon and Cherno Alpha were worse than Gipsy—the two of them had lost both of their pilots and been destroyed by the kaiju too. Even Striker had lost a pilot, though he tried not to think about that. Really, Gipsy, who still had both of her pilots completely alive and intact, should have been the happiest one of them all.

But she wasn’t. She was broken, empty, just like Crimson and Cherno, who had lost both of their pilots while Gipsy had lost none. And out of the deep, dark hole that the rest of the Jaegers had fallen into, only Striker had risen, battered and grieving because of Chuck’s death, but somehow become the only one in the Shatterdome that actually talked and communicated with the humans and did normal Jaeger things. Why was that? It made sense for Crimson and Cherno, but not for Gipsy. She should have been fine.

Speaking of Gipsy, where was she? Striker didn’t see her anywhere—not on the island, not swimming like the other day, and she definitely wasn’t in the Shatterdome. She never went there anymore, probably because that’s where all of the humans were.

Striker scanned the horizon, but couldn’t see Gipsy anywhere. Maybe she was on the island, and he just couldn’t see her behind the trees. But even when she was sitting, she was a bit taller than the trees. He should have been able to see at least the top of her head. And he couldn’t! The ocean was completely empty.

After a few more minutes of looking, he began to panic. Where was she? Striker quickly got to his feet and hurried back to the Shatterdome. “Raleigh! Mako!” he called.

It didn’t take very long for Raleigh and Mako to appear. They ran down the slope toward him. “What is it?” Raleigh called.

“I can’t find Gipsy. She isn’t anywhere.”

Mako blinked. “What do you mean? You can’t find her at all?”

“No, look.” Striker gestured toward the ocean. “She’s not on the island, she’s not in the ocean, she’s not in the beach, nor is she in the Shatterdome. She’s just … not here!”

Raleigh looked worried. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’d be able to see her if she were on the island, and I’d obviously be able to see her if she were swimming or something. She’s gone!” Striker turned and looked at the ocean, but it was still undisturbed by anything but waves. “We need to find her.”

“Yes we do,” Raleigh breathed.

Mako pressed her lips together. “When’s the last time you—”

“Hey, wait!” Raleigh brightened up. He pointed at something behind Striker. “Is that her? I think I see something …”

Striker whirled around and he and Mako followed Raleigh’s gaze. At first, Striker couldn’t see anything, but then a hazy dark shape appeared on the horizon. Was it Gipsy? It seemed too small to be her. Striker squinted as the dark shape grew larger and larger and began to take the shape of … well, that sure looked like Gipsy. Yep, it was Gipsy. And she was running straight at him, Mako, and Raleigh.

Startled, Striker took a step back and was about to jump out of the way when Gipsy ran up the beach, grabbed him by the shoulders, and told him, “I need to go to Anchorage!”

“What—” Striker held up his hands defensively. “Anchorage? Why—”

“Anchorage. I need to go.” Gipsy shook Striker violently.

Striker dizzily grabbed Gipsy’s wrists and pried her hands off of him. “Okay, okay!” He took a step back from Gipsy, who was still breathing hard and staring at him. Her turbine was spinning like crazy and her visor was a bright, bright orange. He hadn’t seen her this excited since before the mission.

“Anchorage,” Mako murmured, then glanced at Raleigh. “Isn’t that where you and your brother were stationed?”

Raleigh nodded slowly. “Yes … which is why it’s … _interesting_ that Gipsy wants to go back there.” He frowned. “You’d think it would hold painful memories for her.”

“It does,” Gipsy replied, talking to Raleigh for the first time in over a week and startling him so that he stared at his Jaeger in surprise. “That’s exactly why I need to go.”

Mako bit her lip, then glanced at Raleigh again. “Well? Do you think it’s safe?”

Raleigh sighed loudly. “If Gipsy really wants to …”

“Yes,” Gipsy replied vehemently. She seemed absolutely determined to go to Anchorage. Striker wondered why. Yancy had died there, hadn’t he? Or near there, at least. Who would want to go back to the scene of something so … painful? But Gipsy looked so sure of herself. She really did want to go.

“Fine, but I’m not letting you go alone,” Raleigh decided. “Mako and I will come with—”

“No!” Gipsy shouted loudly. Striker, Mako, and Raleigh all jumped a bit in surprise. This was more emotion than Gipsy had shown in a while. Gipsy lowered her voice. “No, no, you can’t come with me. Not you two. Especially not you two.”

Mako and Raleigh both looked hurt and offended. “But then who’s going to go with you?” Raleigh protested. “I am not letting you go to Anchorage alone.”

Striker slowly backed away. Things were starting to get personal, and he didn’t want to get caught up in an argument between Gipsy and her pilots. He’d just quietly slip away from the conversation—

“You.” Gipsy grabbed Striker’s arm before he could get away. “You can go with me. You’re not a human.”

 _I’m not a human? That’s why you want me to come?_ Striker was saddened even more. Gipsy was rejecting all humans, even her pilots. _We really need to figure out what’s wrong. This isn’t Gipsy, this is … well. It isn’t Gipsy, that’s for sure._

“Striker?” Raleigh and Mako turned to him. They didn’t even try to argue for their case—more proof of how thoroughly Gipsy had rejected them. “Do you want to go with Gipsy?” Mako asked.

“Um …” Striker slowly tugged his arm out of Gipsy’s grip. “If that’s the only way things are going to work …” Obviously Gipsy didn’t want a human to go with her, and the other Jaegers were just as bad as she was, so he was really their only choice. He sighed. “All right, I’ll go.” It would make Gipsy happy, and that’s all that mattered. A happy Gipsy was better than an empty Gipsy. Hell, _any_ Gipsy was better than an empty Gipsy.

“Then … I guess it’s settled?” Raleigh looked uncertain. Striker felt like he had to reassure him that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Gipsy, but now was definitely not the time. Gipsy was standing right next to them—she’d probably punch him in the face then throw Raleigh into the ocean.

“Yes,” Mako replied just as uncertainly. “I guess it is. I’ll go … arrange something about it.” She turned around and headed back toward the Shatterdome. After a few moments, Raleigh sighed and followed her.

Striker watched them go until he couldn’t see them anymore. Then he turned slowly to look at Gipsy, who was staring at him with that empty expression again. He stifled a sigh and instead asked her, “Are you really sure you want to go to Anchorage?”

Gipsy nodded.

“Well …” Striker trailed off awkwardly. “Um. Okay, then.” He turned around and headed down the beach toward the enormous half-underwater cave in which he had taken up residence since the mission ended. He didn’t like to be in the Shatterdome without the others, and he refused to share the island with Gipsy or sit on one of those accursed rocks like Cherno and Crimson. He had found his own place about half a mile down the coast in the other direction.

“Striker.”

Gipsy’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. Striker turned to look at her.

“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” she muttered, as if even saying the words took too much effort. Then she turned around abruptly and headed out into the ocean toward her island.

Striker stood there for a minute, staring at her swinging arms as she strode out into the Pacific. That swinging of her arms—the way she walked—it all rang a bell. That’s the way she had walked before the mission. After the mission, she had quietly shuffled around everywhere, barely moving her arms at all. Maybe she was getting better now. She definitely _looked_ better from where Striker was standing.

Maybe Anchorage would heal her.

Then he thought of Yancy and how it had felt to lose Chuck, and Striker snorted. _And maybe pigs will fly._ He turned back around and continued toward his cave.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partly inspired by a fanart by Tumblr user tillall-areone. Why don't you go visit their blog and send them violent, angry asks about how painful their fanart was? BECAUSE IT WAS PAINFUL. TREE BRANCH CROWNS? I MEAN, JESUS CHRIST.

**Chapter Four**  
Well. Striker and Gipsy were in Anchorage now.

Striker stood on the snowy shore of Alaska, watching the boat that had transported them to Anchorage slowly recede into the distance. He could vaguely feel the presence of Gipsy, standing beside him, but he didn’t look over at her. Not yet. Snow blew around his head. The wind was loud and relentless.

He hadn’t been to Alaska before. He was not used to the cold. And right now he was freezing. He slowly, frigidly turned to look at the other Jaeger.

Gipsy, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in the snow and freezing winds. Right. She had been stationed there for most of her life before Yancy had died. Then she had been transferred to Oblivion Bay, but pulled out again when Raleigh was—

Oblivion Bay.

Striker stared at Gipsy, who was still silent, gazing at the dark water of the ocean before them. Oblivion Bay … he wondered how it felt to sit all alone there for five years, with nobody to talk to but shells of old Jaegers. That must have been terrible. Maybe the fact that she had been sent to Oblivion Bay was part of why she was acting so weirdly. That did make a bit of sense …

“Gipsy.” Striker took a step toward her. “Don’t you think we should go to the Anchorage Shatterdome? They’re waiting for us.”

Gipsy mumbled something quietly under her breath.

Striker turned toward her. “What?”

“It’s called the Icebox,” she said, raising her voice. “That’s what they called it. The Icebox. It’s a nickname.”

“Oh.” Striker did not know that. “I did not know that,” he said aloud. “Either way, um, do you want to go?”

Gipsy turned her head slowly to look at him, then shook her head slightly. “No. Not yet.” She turned her entire body around so that she faced inland and her back was turned to the ocean. For the first time in a while, Striker saw her expression shift from hopelessness to something a bit more like her usual half-smiling self. She took a step forward, then ran up the snowy slope to a flat plateau-like cliff that curved along the Alaskan beach. Striker stared in surprise, then slowly followed her.

After a few more ground-shaking steps, Gipsy halted and fell to her knees in the snow, sending up a spray of white and shaking the cliff beneath her. Striker took a wary step back. He wasn’t sure what was going on, whether he should be happy or afraid, whether Gipsy was being cheerful or angry.

“Gipsy?” he asked carefully after a while.

No response. Gipsy’s head was lowered toward the snow. It looked like she was staring at it in concentration, as if the snow were a puzzle she needed to figure out. Striker edged a little bit closer to her. She was leaning over the snow now, hands buried deep into the drifts. She looked like she was having an existential crisis over the snow.

“Gipsy?” Striker repeated. “Are you okay?”

Silence. For a few moments it seemed like Gipsy had simply powered down in the snow and Striker would have to drag her all the way to the Icebox, as she called it. But then she lifted her head, sighed, and sat back on her legs. “Alaska,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Striker replied, then looked at her in confusion. “Yes, Alaska. Why did you want to come to Alaska? I don’t understand.”

Gipsy shook her head slowly. “No, you wouldn’t.” She slowly pushed herself to her feet, creaking because of her frozen joints. Striker stood up as well. “I’m going to the Icebox,” she told him. “You stay here.”

“Stay—” Striker looked at her in surprise. “But I have to go with you. Raleigh and Mako—”

“—aren’t here. And you aren’t my babysitter.” Gipsy gave him a half-smirk. “I’m older than you, you know.” Then she turned around and headed off toward the Shatterdome. Her footsteps echoed in Striker’s head as he tried to comprehend the fact that she had actually smirked. She had actually showed emotion. Maybe she was getting better.

But meanwhile, Striker had to figure out something to do. He couldn’t just stand there in the snow waiting for Gipsy to come back. That was just pathetic.

He turned around in a slow circle, scanning the landscape. Jagged snowy rocks and cliffs—that’s pretty much all there was. And the ocean, of course. The dark ocean crashing periodically against the sharp stones that bordered a beach of flatter, safer rocks to stand on. Striker eased his way down the cliff toward the rocks. He didn’t want to sit in the snow, that was for sure.

A few stunted trees formed a border between the sharp, jutting rocks and the smoother ones Striker was sitting on. He looked at them for a moment, then absentmindedly reached out and a snapped a tree branch off. They were half-dead anyway, and he needed something to do. He took another tree branch and began to weave them together.

He didn’t quite know what he was doing, but soon enough he had half of a tree branch crown. He looked down at it, confused. The humans made things like this, but with flowers instead. Of course, he was much too big to make a flower crown, as his fingers would probably crush the flimsy petals. But a tree branch crown … hey, why not. Striker felt the edges thoughtfully. It actually looked pretty nice, even half-finished.

“Is that a tree branch crown?” Gipsy leaned over his shoulder.

Striker jumped a little bit. He hadn’t noticed Gipsy was back. He looked back at her and saw that she was crouching near the cliff’s edge, staring down at the tree branches in his hand with a curious look. Wow. This was more emotion than she had shown a week combined.

“Er … maybe. No. Yes,” Striker stammered. He wasn’t sure what he was making anymore. Who had he been making the crown for, anyway? Definitely not himself, tree branch crowns—and the humans’ flower crowns—were for girls. Maybe he had been unintentionally making the crown for—

No. No. Of course not. Striker crushed the tree branches in his fist. He had just been making use of the materials around him to the pass time. He threw the branches into the ocean. They floated and spun in the rocking waves for a moment before washing away into the deep darkness of the water.

Gipsy looked at him. “Why’d you do that?” she asked. “I liked that crown!”

Striker stood up abruptly, forcing Gipsy to stumble backward and regain her footing awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t,” he snapped, then climbed the cliff and brushed past her coldly. “Let’s go to the … Shatterdome, Icebox, whatever you call it. I don’t feel like staying out here anymore.”

Gipsy turned to follow him. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You seem … bothered.”

“Do I?” Striker stopped suddenly, making Gipsy skid and stumble to a halt so she didn’t pass him by. “And what are you?”

Gipsy stared at him in shock, hurt and offended. Striker immediately wanted to take back the words even as he said them. Gipsy looked like she was about to punch him in the face or break down into tearful hysterics. A mixture of both, actually. He forced himself not to say anything and stared her down.

“How could you—” Gipsy took a step back. “I thought you were—” She seemed at a loss for words. “I just …” She clenched her fists and took a deep breath. “Fine.” She turned away from him abruptly and marched toward the Shatterdome, ignoring his “Wait, Gipsy—I didn’t mean that!”

Striker mentally kicked himself as he slowly followed behind Gipsy. Why did he say that? What was wrong with him? And why did he feel so confused? And why did he want to just punch himself in the face, throw himself into the ocean, and be done with it? But at the same time, he wanted to stay in Alaska and follow Gipsy around and make sure she was okay. Then he also wanted to hang back and just watch her progress, because he didn’t want to interfere. But he also—

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he muttered to himself. “You’re just making it worse.”

Up ahead, a large, gray, slightly rounded shape rose from the stark white of the snow. Gipsy was already nearing it, and a crowd of humans were gathering around the entrance to welcome her. Striker doubted he would receive the same welcome. After all, they knew Gipsy better than they knew him. He was just this random Australian Jaeger coming in from nowhere.

As he recalled the way he had acted toward Gipsy, and the way she had reacted, he wondered if anybody in Anchorage would welcome him. He sighed. He didn’t know anyone in Alaska. He had only come to support Gipsy and … well, she kind of hated him now. And it was all his fault.

Striker stopped before he got to the Shatterdome and knelt down in the ground. They couldn’t see him through the snow—or at least he hoped they couldn’t. His armor was pretty white anyway. He sighed again and put his head in his hands. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he ever do anything right?

 _Fine_ , he told himself. Gipsy wanted him to leave him alone. So he would. And then maybe he’d finally, finally be doing something right.

And maybe without his interference, Gipsy would get over his blunder and forgive him and they would be friends again.

Maybe. Hopefully. Striker sighed.

Probably not.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**  
It was cold in Alaska. Very cold. Striker understood why they called the Anchorage Shatterdome—the Icebox, whatever—the “coldest Shatterdome”. Because it was. It was freezing. Striker wasn’t used to this kind of weather.

But he wasn’t going inside, oh no. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t going in there, especially not after what had happened. Gipsy was probably still mad at him—or maybe she wasn’t. After all, she hadn’t really showed much emotion for the past week or two, so maybe she had forgotten about it. But then again, she had changed a little bit. So maybe she was mad. Why was Striker even thinking about this?

He sighed. He wanted to lay on his back in the snow, but his T-16 Angel Wings unfortunately did not allow him to do that. Idiotic weaponry. He didn’t even need them anymore, since the war was over. He just wanted to rip them off. He wanted to rip everything off, rip himself in pieces and throw himself into the ocean.

“Striker.”

No. No. Why was she here? Striker forced himself not to turn around. Pretend you didn’t hear her. Pretend … just don’t look at her. Don’t look at her, goddammit, Striker! He didn’t know what he would do if he looked at her.

“What are you doing out here?” She sounded concerned. But she couldn’t be. She hated him. Why did her voice sound so … so … like she pitied him, like she felt sorry for him when it should have been the other way around. Like she was trying to comfort him when the only reason he had come to Alaska was to comfort her. And he was failing. Miserably.

“Are you okay?” she asked after a while, probably worried by the fact that he wasn’t answering.

“I’m fine,” Striker finally snapped. “Go inside. It’s cold.”

Gipsy made a noise somewhere between an exasperated sigh and an amused snort. “Striker,” she said. “I’ve lived here for years. I’m used to the cold. You’re the one who’s freezing your … what are they called? Wings?”

“T-16 Angel Wings,” he muttered.

“Yeah. Whatever they are, you’re freezing them off. And you’re the one sitting outside. Come on,” she said. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside.”

Striker slowly turned to look at her in astonishment. “Gipsy, where is all of this coming from? Honestly, you haven’t spoken this much in the past two weeks combined, and you’re even showing emotion too. And I thought you were mad at me. What are you even doing out here?”

Gipsy regarded him with a strange look. He wasn’t sure whether she was mad or angry or sad or what; her expression was empty—but not in that way. It was empty of emotions but full of feeling, if that even made sense. Striker waited for her to say something, not sure if it was in anticipation or apprehension.

“I’m not mad at you,” she replied quietly.

Striker stared at her. “What are you talking about? You sounded furious.”

Gipsy was at a loss for words. She stared at the ground, then glanced up at Striker. The air was buzzing with tension. But in a good way. Kind of. Did that exist? Striker couldn’t believe he was thinking about the possibility of a good tens—

“Like you said,” Gipsy replied smoothly. “I haven’t showed emotion in a week.”

 _That’s not what I said_ , Striker thought. But he didn’t push it. Gipsy wasn’t mad at him, and she was getting better. He was not going to ruin it again with a misplaced comment. Instead he just sighed and got to his feet. “Fine,” he muttered. “Lead the way.”

Gipsy did.

The Anchorage Shatterdome was quiet when they arrived. Well, of course it would be quiet. It was drawing close to evening, and besides, the war was over. What was there to do? He and Gipsy just walked right into the hangar. Nobody was around except for a few engineers milling around here and there. Though there was plenty of room in the hangar since they were the only ones there, they ended up sitting together at the end of the hangar, farthest away from the door.

“So, um, what are we doing here?” Striker thought it was safe to ask that, since Gipsy did seem to be getting better.

Gipsy immediately fell silent and looked away. “I can’t tell you that,” she murmured.

“Why not?” Striker asked, desperate to salvage the situation. He didn’t want to make the same mistake again and push Gipsy deeper into her hole of … depression? Was it depression? She didn’t seem depressed. But then again, nobody ever did.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Striker,” Gipsy sighed. “I really can’t. I would if I could. But it’s not something you can just explain, just like that. You … you wouldn’t understand.” She glanced at him, then back down at the ground. “Sorry.”

Striker decided then not to say anything more. He didn’t want to mess it up. It was like getting a tattoo, however weird that analogy was. If you messed up, it was permanent, and it would affect somebody forever. If you didn’t mess up, everything would turn out great. Which is why you had to be careful. So Striker would be careful.

“Um. It’s getting late,” he stated. “We should … probably …”

“Power down and rest, yeah.” Gipsy sighed and leaned back against the metal wall of the hangar. “Good night, Striker.” She shifted around a little bit to get comfortable, then powered down completely. Her visor darkened to a deep, burnt orange and a low, content hum emitted from her body. Striker stared ahead as the hangar was slowly closed. He could see a sliver of dark, snowy night outside for a few moments before the door clanged shut on the floor. He sighed and lay back, then glanced at Gipsy. She was so—

 _No. Don’t even think about that, Striker._ He mentally punched himself in the face. “Just—” he muttered to himself. “Go to sleep already.” He sat back, got into a comfortable position, and—

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. How could he sleep? Striker slowly slid down the wall until the only thing between him, the wall, and the floor were his T-16 Angel Wings. Stupid things. They were useless and annoying now, after the war. Striker stared up at the ceiling. He had to go to sleep. 

It was almost three in the morning before Striker finally powered down to 50% and took a two-hour, half-awake nap. The rest of the night—and morning—he was preoccupied and kept awake by the problems of himself and a certain American Jaeger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screeching because ship*


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for both how long it took me to write this chapter and the fact that it's so sad I cried about it.

**Chapter Six**  
Gipsy felt something cold poke her in the arm.

She groaned and swatted at Striker. “Go away,” she muttered. “I’m tired.”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” Striker replied. “I really think you should get up.”

Gipsy powered her visor up to full, then glanced at Striker wearily. “What is there to even do? For all you know, this could be what I came to Alaska for.”

Striker gave her a look. “To sleep?”

Gipsy sighed and pushed herself off the wall. “Fine,” she said. “What do you suggest we do, then?” She stared him down, as if daring him to make an actual good suggestion.

He shrugged. “Take a walk?”

“A walk?” Gipsy repeated.

Striker turned to look at her. “Why not?”

“You said you weren’t used to the cold,” Gipsy replied. “Why do you want to go out there?” She stretched out her fingers, which were frosted over with snow. She shook them irritably and the white fell away. “Wouldn’t you rather stay inside and be warm?”

“No,” Striker replied immediately. “Because I know you’d much rather be outside, even if you don’t know it. So let’s go.”

Gipsy crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going.”

“Come on,” Striker prodded her. “You’ll like it.”

Gipsy shook her head. “No.”

Striker sighed loudly, then grabbed Gipsy’s arm and yanked her to her feet and began dragging her out of the hangar. “Hey!” she exclaimed, tugging at her arm. “Let go! I don’t want to—” She cut herself off, yanking her hand out of his grip and stumbling a bit as they emerged into the cold. Gipsy dusted herself off and glared at him. “Was that really necessary?”

 _Aha. She’s talking the way she used to._ Striker just shrugged. Gipsy huffed and began to walk out into the snow.

“Where are we going?” Striker asked as he caught up to her.

Gipsy shrugged irritably. “I don’t know—you’re the one who wanted to go out.” She looked up at the sky. The falling snow was thickening, the wind picking up its pace. By this time the Shatterdome—Icebox—was only a dark shape in the distance. Striker and Gipsy did have pretty large strides, after all. A trail of enormous footprints traced a slightly curved line in the snow.

“Well?” Gipsy looked at Striker, turning toward a snowy ridge that rose before them. “What’s your plan? What are we doing out here?”

“Walking,” Striker muttered as they climbed the ridge. “Just …” He looked up at her. “Walking.”

“Why?” Gipsy asked quietly, more of out of exasperation than shyness.

Striker gestured to the snow around them. “Why not? The snow’s beautiful and there’s nothing else to do. A walk was our best choice. And here we are.”

“Freezing our Conn-Pods off, yes, very invigorating,” Gipsy replied sarcastically.

“And you said you were used to the cold,” Striker shot back. He found this playful banter a bit relieving, to be perfectly honest; it meant Gipsy was slowly coming back to normal. Maybe she’d get better by the end of the trip to Alaska. One could only hope.

Gipsy huffed, but both of them could tell that she wasn’t really annoyed. “Shut up,” she murmured, then stopped abruptly and looked around. After a few seconds, she glanced at Striker in alarm. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Where—” Striker slowly turned in a circle. “Well, I … I thought we … we climbed that ridge, right? And then we just … walked … and kept walking.” He turned back to Gipsy. “But I can’t see the ridge anymore!”

Gipsy spun around. “Are we lost?” she asked nervously.

“Lost? No … we just …” Striker desperately tried to think of something to say. “The ridge is over there somewhere …” He waved his arm in the general direction where they had come from. “So we can just retrace our steps and we’ll be able to—” He stopped. “Oh.” Their footprints had been filled with snow. The wind was howling around them. Snow battered their plating. “A blizzard,” he muttered. “Just our luck.”

“A blizzard,” Gipsy echoed. She paused for a second, then fell to her knees with an expression like she had just been hit by something large and heavy. “We’re lost,” she whispered. “We’re lost in the middle of a blizzard in Alaska. We’re lost, we’re—” She clenched her fists. “You idiot, Striker, saying we should take a walk. We’re in the middle of a blizzard! And lost!”

Striker sighed. “However happy I am that you’re actually, finally showing emotion—”

“Can you shut up about my emotions?” Gipsy snapped. “We need to figure out how to get back to the Shatterdome or our inner wiring is going to freeze and we will, in a sense, die. Okay? So just shut up and think!” She turned back to stare at the ground in apparent concentration.

Well, then. Striker took a step back and sat down heavily on the snow. He tried to think of something—some way to get back to the Icebox, but he couldn’t think of anything. How were they supposed to find their way back? After all, their footprints had been erased by the snow and all they could see around them was endless snow, snow, snow. Damned snow. Striker wished he could see anything—anything at all—but snow.

They could, of course, guess and just walk in a random direction, hoping it was the right way, but … what if it wasn’t right? What if they just got themselves more lost? Striker groaned in frustration and was slightly startled by how loud the noise was. In the silence that surrounded him, it was a bit—

Silence. 

Oh, no. 

Gipsy.

“Gipsy?”

Silence.

_Oh, no._

Striker stumbled to his feet and dropped to his knees next to her. “Gipsy!” She was lying on the ground, curled up with her head half-buried in the snow, turbine spinning slowly, half-frozen already. “Gipsy, no, you’ve got to keep moving or you’ll freeze, Gipsy—”

Panic. Terrified panic. No, no, no— _Gipsy, no_ —she’d die if she just sat there, she had to get up and move or she’d freeze and her inner workings would freeze and her Conn-Pod would freeze and her turbine would slowly, slowly wind down until it didn’t move anymore and—no, no. “Gipsy, come on. Please,” Striker pleaded. He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her over so that she was lying on her back. Her arms and legs fell onto the ground as if dead already, sprawling on the snow. “Gipsy. Please, please don’t do this, come on …” But no answer. She simply lay there, visor dark, turbine spinning lazily, ice frosting over her metal plating. Striker desperately dusted the frost off, but it was no use. She was freezing. She would die.

Striker was terrified. He couldn’t let her die, he couldn’t just sit back and watch her slowly freeze into oblivion, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, if she died he didn’t know what he would do, he had to save her, somehow … “Gipsy,” Striker said again. “Please. Gipsy. Look at me. Gipsy.” His voice became increasingly more and more choked as he began to panic. “Don’t do this, not now, please, you were getting better, I could see that you were, please, please—Gipsy don’t—” He hiccuped as he felt a sob rising. Could Jaegers cry? He didn’t think so. That was a human thing. But so was this. Loss was a human thing too, wasn’t it? “Gipsy,” he whispered. “Gipsy, please.”

And then slowly, oh so slowly, her turbine stopped. Creaked to a frosty halt.

Striker felt like he’d been punched in the face by a kaiju.

_No._

He sat in the snow, wind whistling around his head, and stared. He stared. Stared. Stared. Shock. Disbelief. Horror. _No._

“Gipsy,” he whispered. _Gipsy_ —the wind plucked the words from the air and spun them toward the clouds. Snow fell. _Gipsy, Gipsy, Gipsy_ … it echoed, it shouted, Striker wanted to die, Gipsy was dead, she was gone, she—

“No, no,” Striker hissed. No, he wouldn’t let her die. No. He dragged her body closer her to him and powered himself up to full, one hundred percent, and leaned down and hugged her close to him, willing his energy to maybe somehow warm her up, unfreeze her wirings, maybe save her life, oh _please, please, please_ let it work. Striker didn’t believe in a god like the humans did but at that moment he prayed to anything—anyone that was out there—that somehow Gipsy would survive.

A low hum, a crackle, came from Gipsy’s head. Striker shot upward, startled. Was she—oh. No. Her turbine still wasn’t moving. It was probably just—oh, oh, no, her wiring, it was sparking, this was bad, he had to do something—Striker quickly rubbed her turbine free of all frost and dusted the snow off and powered himself up again until he felt like his entire body was going to catch on fire and pulled her closer and hoped and wished and pleaded that _please, please please_ , Gipsy would be okay.

And so he stayed for hours and hours, metal plating so hot it would incinerate any human who touched it, visor bright, sparks flying periodically from his Conn-Pod. In fact, if you were to watch the two of them from above, all you’d see was snow, snow, snow, all around, a two glowing pulses of light in the middle of nowhere—the slightly glowing body of Striker and the nuclear heart he curled around, trying so desperately to keep spinning. Her heart and his, hanging on a thread in the middle of a blizzard.

_Please._


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have Exhibit A: the author actually putting some Gipsy/Striker into the fic after six entire chapters of awkward implications.

**Chapter Seven**   
_Water._

That was Gipsy’s first thought.

Her second was: _I thought I was dead._

She powered her visor to full and jerked awake. Ice-cold water sloshed around her, but at the same time she felt … warm. Weirdly warm. Like she’d been shoved into a giant oven for a split second, then taken out. Gipsy shook her head dazedly and reached out her arm to steady herself, still trying to see through the water and frost that caked her visor, but her arm bumped against something hard. She kicked in the water and turned to see what it was, but the damned frost on her visor still—

“Gipsy, calm down” a familiar voice said. It echoed around her head and hurt her mind and she tried to scream for it to stop but she realized it already had. Gipsy felt so disoriented—confused—what was going on? She felt warm. Cold. Water. _Water?_

“It’s me, Striker,” said the voice. “Don’t worry. You’re okay now.” The voice—Striker—was oddly soothing, and Gipsy felt herself calm down. _I’m okay. I’m not dead, I’m … I’m in water. Why am I in water?_

“I can’t—see anything—” Gipsy forced out.

Something brushed against her face. She tried to touch it, but whatever it was—probably Striker’s hand—pushed her away and wiped against her visor, clearing away her vision. “Here,” Striker said. His voice … it sounded odd. Gipsy shook her head again to clear it, then looked around.

They were in the ocean.

Floating in the middle of the Pacific. Or not?

Not floating, no. Gipsy was vaguely aware of something hard behind her … probably a cluster of seaweed-encrusted black rocks like those stones she always saw out at sea when she was on the beach. There was also something on top of her, she could feel—

Oh, no.

Striker had his arm flung over her chest, pinning her against the rock, keeping her half out of the water so that only her legs were submerged in the icy ocean. But—no—Striker himself was smoking and sparking and hot to the touch and most of his body was being quietly tossed back and forth between the waves. Bundles of cables were exposed in his legs, sparking and fizzling as they made contact with the water again and again. His visor was dark and cracked on the right side, buzzing every now and then with ominous messages of a digital overload. One of his T-16 Angel Wings was crushed, even though it was under no pressure. He must have been tossed  
around and battered quite a lot before ending up at the rock.

Gipsy stared at him.

He had saved her life, but at the cost of his own.

“Striker.” Gipsy tried to pull herself up the rock so she could drag him onto it with her, but he shook his head lazily and waved his hand at her.

“Don’t try,” Striker muttered. “If you move my arm, you’ll fall into the water and we’ll both die. One of us has to survive, okay? And it looks like that’s going to be you.” He turned his head slowly toward her. “But that’s fine. I’m okay with dying, I’m—”

“What? No!” Gipsy refused to acknowledge the word _die_. It brought back too many memories and—and Striker couldn’t die, no, he couldn’t. He saved her life. And he was … her friend, she couldn’t let him just die. Not like this. Especially not after what had happened.

“Look,” Striker said, his voice crackling with damaged wires. “I overheated myself trying to revive you and when you did I … well I just … I don’t know how we got into the water but somehow we did, I think it had something to do with the wind and snow but I don’t know … all right? All I know is that you’re alive, I’m overheated and dying, and you need to stop moving around because if you move my arm you are you going to fall and die as well. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

Gipsy shook her head, adamant. “Just let go of me, I can get into a better position and pull you up and we can both—”

“No,” Striker replied fiercely. “You don’t understand, do you? My wiring has gone wrong. My inner workings have been pushed past their breaking point. No matter where I am—in the water, on the rock, back in the Shatterdome—I am damaged beyond repair. I’m going to die. But you’re not. So don’t even think of trying to save me. You’re just going to hurt yourself.”

No, no, no. Gipsy felt like screaming in pain and frustration. Everybody she had loved or ever cared about was dying or dead or gone or—no. Not Striker, too. Especially not Striker. He’d saved her life. And—she admitted silently to herself—he had saved her from the empty shell she had started to become. “Striker, don’t say that,” she said. Gipsy shifted on the rock so was lying half on her side. “C’mon. Give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

“Don’t—”

“I don’t care if you think you’re going to die! Wouldn’t you rather die up here than down there? Just take my hand!” Gipsy grew frustrated and waved her arm at him, mentally pleading with him to take it. _Please. At least on the rock you have some chance of surviving. Down there you have none._

Striker shook his head. “It’s not use. Don’t try. Just stay up there. And don’t move. Sooner or later a helicopter or a ship or something will find you. You don’t want to be floating lifelessly in the middle of the ocean when they do.”

“And neither do you,” Gipsy shot back. “Look, just give me your hand. Whether you think you’re going to die or not, you’re getting up here on this rock. You are, okay? Now take. My. Hand.”

Striker shook his head. “N—”

“Take my hand, you idiot! The fact that you spent most of your life living with kangaroos and wild dogs and koalas is no excuse for you willingly killing yourself to save an American Jaeger you only met like two months ago. Now take. My. Hand.”

For a moment Striker just stared at her in astonishment. Gipsy would have felt sorry if it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation. She jiggled her arm again as if to hurry him up. With a quiet shake of his head, Striker sighed and grabbed Gipsy’s hand. She gave a hmph of approval and gripped his hand, then braced herself against the rock and pulled as hard as she could. With a few muttered curses and quite a lot of grumbling and awkward flailing and gravelly crunches against the rock, Gipsy managed to shift herself into a dip between two of the huge black rocks so Striker had enough room to climb onto the surface of the stones. He sat awkwardly on it for a second or two, then sighed and shook his head again. “Gipsy—”

“Don’t you even start.” She absentmindedly reached toward her head. “I wonder, is my Conn-Pod still functional? Maybe I can contact—”

“No. It’s not working.”

Gipsy gave Striker a look. “How would you know?”

“Well, you froze to death, then I heated you back to life, then we ended up in the ocean, do you really think your Conn-Pod is still going to—”

“I can try!” Gipsy snapped.

Striker huffed and shook his head. “Whatever.” His voice crackled again and he shook his arm irritably. Sparks flew from his elbow. “Just—whatever you do, hurry.” Another shower of sparks fell from his arm. Gipsy quickly turned on her Conn-Pod. _Please don’t let Striker die, please._

“Gipsy Danger to Icebox, we—”

A voice answered almost immediately. “Gipsy!” There was a clatter and a shout, then the voice came back. “Gipsy, where are you? We’ve been looking everywhere, we’re worried sick, where—”

Barely sparing a smug I-told-you-so look at Striker, she quickly scanned her surroundings. “I’m not sure where we are … we’re on a cluster of black rocks somewhere in the Pacific—”

“Black rocks, black rocks … we’ll find you, don’t worry. Stay put, okay?”

 _Not like we’re going anywhere._ Gipsy glanced at Striker, who was watching her lazily, almost as if he honestly didn’t care what happened anymore as long as he was left in peace. “Please hurry,” she added. “Striker’s … in a bad state.”

“Right. We’re on our way. Hang in there.”

Static, then silence.

Gipsy sat there for a while quietly, then slowly turned to look at Striker. “Well?”

“Well.” Striker shifted around, then rested awkwardly on his broken Angel Wings. “I guess I’m not going to die after all.”

“No,” Gipsy replied. “You’re not.” She paused, then nodded at him and said, “I’m sorry about your Angel Wings. They’re, uh … pretty banged up.”

Striker shrugged. “Not—” His voice squealed into static and he hit himself in the face a few times. “Not like I need them anyway,” he continued. “They’re for balance, but …” He shrugged again. “They’re stupid. I mean, Angel Wings? I’m not much of an angel.”

_You’re my angel._

It came from nowhere. Gipsy was startled.

Oh no. Had she actually thought that? She felt herself growing hot with embarrassment. He wasn’t—well he had saved her life but—okay, more than just her life, but that didn’t mean—oh gosh. She made an awkward noise and waved her arm at Striker, as if to say, _No, I’m fine, I did not just think of you that way, ignore me._ He looked at her strangely, probably wondering if she was okay. _NO, I’M NOT. I’m imaging conversations with you in my head oh NO, Gipsy stop!_ She crossed her arms over her chest and made a throat-clearing noise, like the humans did when they were about to announce something.

“I did not think anything,” she told Striker.

Striker stared at her in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing at all. I’m fine. Angel Wings. Helicopters should be here soon. Or maybe not. Should I talk to them again? Should I? Oh, but that might be annoying. Ha, angels!” She realized she was rambling and felt even more mortified. “Um, right, uh …”

“Are you all right?” Striker reached out a hand.

“Yes! Fine!” Her voice was embarrassingly shrill. “Fine! Don’t move! You’ll hurt yourself.”

Striker stared at her for a few more moments, confused, then shook his head and leaned back on the rock with a sigh. “Whatever you say,” he murmured.

Meanwhile Gipsy’s thoughts were spinning around her head like crazy. Why had she thought that? Did she mean it? Okay, maybe she did. But not in that way … or did she? Gipsy was confused. Did she like him? Maybe. But liking other Jaegers like that … well, love was a human thing, wasn’t it? Then again, so was friendship and bravery and anger and—oh it was all just so confusing! What if Striker didn’t like her that way in return? That would be infinitely awkward.

Now that she thought of it, he probably didn’t. _So don’t even think about it, Gipsy._ She forced the thought out of her head. _The helicopters will be here soon, we’ll go back to the Icebox, and then we can finally go back to Hong Kong. And that’s it. No more._ She and Striker were just friends. That was all.

Right. Just friends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Just friends.

Gipsy lay back on the rock and stared at the sky. _Just friends._


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING UGH I KNOW THIS CHAPTER IS REALLY REALLY OVERDUE BUT SCHOOL STARTED AND I WAS SOOOOOOO BUSY.
> 
> I'm still busy, I'm just procrastinating and posting the next chapter of this fanfic instead of writing a lab report, shh, I was never here.
> 
> Warning: Lots of emotional bits and awkwardness!

**Chapter Eight**  
“You’re better?”

“I’m better.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Striker reached over his shoulder and tapped on one of his Angel Wings. “All fixed. I’m fine now. We can go back to Hong Kong if you want now.”

It was two weeks later. Gipsy and Striker had spent their time in and out of the repair bay, and now they were finally both out. They stood in the snowy cliff just above the rocky beach, where they had landed when first arriving at Anchorage. Gipsy shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. 

“And what about you?” Striker looked up at her. “Are you okay?”

They both knew what he meant by that. The air was thick with a sort of relieved tension.

“I’m fine,” Gipsy replied. At Striker’s skeptical look, she reached out and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Really, I am. You can stop being a mother hen now.”

“Mother hen,” Striker muttered. “I was just worried, okay? Anybody would be worried.”

Gipsy reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You don’t have to—” She paused for a second, then stepped forward and hugged him unexpectedly. “Thank you,” she told him quietly. “For everything.”

Striker was stunned. “I—uh—” He hugged her back awkwardly, not sure what to say or do. “You’re welcome, I guess, I—I’m just happy that you’re okay.” He stepped back from Gipsy and looked up at her. She was watching him, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking or how she was looking at him—warily? Angrily? Nervously? He shook his head dazedly. “Um. I … I think … I ...” He shook his head. “Sorry."

Gipsy shook her head in a way that made Striker imagine her smiling in amusement. “You don’t need to say anything.” She crossed her arms and looked up at the sky. “It’s really nice out today, isn’t it?”

Striker followed her gaze. Then he snorted and looked back down at her. “All I can see are dark clouds and impending rain.”

“Rain,” Gipsy hummed. “I like rain.”

“I don’t.”

“And I don’t care.” Gipsy gave him a look.

Striker shook his head. “Rain is bad for us, you know. Rust and all that.”

Gipsy shrugged. “We haven’t rusted yet. One storm won’t make a difference.”

“One storm could make all the difference. For all you know, this could be the one that pushes you over the edge, the one that actually makes you start to—” Striker cut himself off abruptly, suddenly realizing exactly how that sounded.

Gipsy fought back an urge to laugh. “And who was it who just said they weren’t being a mother hen?” she teased him.

Striker shrugged. “Better safe than sorry,” he muttered, a bit unreasonably embarrassed to be caught worrying so much and acting like, well, a mother hen.

“Hey,” Gipsy huffed. “You don’t have to be like that. Emotion isn’t a weakness. You know, showing concern or worry every once in a while isn’t going to make you less of a Jaeger.”

“It’s not that,” Striker snapped, annoyed because Gipsy was right, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. Because he wasn’t just worrying about her because he was being a “mother hen”, it was because—he tried not to think about that. He worried about all of his friends, but especially Gipsy. And the reason—the reason for that was—well, she was just so ... _something_ , a sort of quality that he couldn't quite put his finger on. But it made him stop and stare at her in her hangar every once in a while, or irrationally worry about her when she went out to fight kaiju or do anything dangerous. And however embarrassing it was to admit that, it was true. He was, well ... if he had to completely honest with himself, he was a little bit in love with her. And that in itself was so mortifying he tried to hide it in any way possible. But over the past few days he had let his guard slip, and he was afraid that Gipsy might—you know, think less of him. Or something. But by the way she was acting about showing emotion and all that, maybe she wouldn’t. Striker shrugged irritably.

“Then what is it?” Gipsy asked, sounding annoyed herself now. “Why can’t you just stop being an emotionless robot for once and—”

“An emotionless robot?” Striker repeated in disbelief. “Gipsy, that’s what we are. If you haven’t noticed, we’re made out of metal! We’ve got wires and cables instead of a heart and a brain and we only have sentiency because of the fortunately correct whims of an engineer. We’re not supposed to be talking! We’re not supposed to be moving! We’re not supposed to be alive at all!”

Gipsy shook her head angrily. “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that. We’re—we’re not robots. We’re—we’re—”

“What are we?” Striker said in a tone that almost dared her to go on.

“We’re Jaegers! Not robots. There’s a difference!” Gipsy seemed almost desperate to find an answer. It was like she didn’t know exactly what they were, but she would take anything as long as it wasn’t just cold, emotionless robots.

“Really?” Striker took advantage of Gipsy’s mindset. “‘Jaegers’ is just a name. Robots are who we—”

“Shut up!” Something flew out and punched Striker in the face. He staggered backward, startled. The crunch of metal on metal drew the attention of a couple of engineers, but they soon turned away again, probably thinking they were only sparring.

“We’re not just robots!” Gipsy flew at him in a rage, hands balled into fists and aimed straight at him. Striker flung up his arms as they fall backward onto the snowy beach—right onto his Angel Wings. A jolt of pain jarred through his body even as Gipsy pinned him down and punched him repeatedly in the face.

“We are! Just accept it!” Striker flung out his hand and grabbed the arm Gipsy was punching him with, and twisted it to the left so that she skidded on the beach, almost falling into the water. Striker leapt to his feet just as Gipsy regained her balance, and for a moment they stood there, glaring at each other, each with their own reasons to be furious.

Finally Gipsy snapped and whipped out her arm, punching him in the chest and flinging Striker back against the cliff. The cliff shook and snow rained down on his head, turning to mush as it found the drops of rain that were still pattering down from the clouds. Lighting flashed in the distance, followed by a rumble of thunder. Striker wondered briefly how one punch could possibly fling him so far and so hard—but the answer was obvious. _Idiotic elbow rocket_ , he thought angrily as he jumped to his feet. _Fine. We’re bringing out the weapons now, huh?_ Striker folded back his hands and brought out his Sting Blades (at least they were useful for something), then rushed forward and hit Gipsy as hard as he could.

Metal screeched as Gipsy was thrown against the icy water that lapped at the beach, sending up a spray of snow and water. For a split second, she lay there, stunned and furious that Striker had actually used his weaponry on her. But, then again, she’d done the same to him. She shook her head free of the rain and the ocean water and stepped onto the beach again, almost growling in anger. A flash of lightning in the distance, a gust of wind. Rain splattered against her chassis. Gipsy leaped forward, drew back her arm, and as swung her fist at Striker’s face. The loud crunch and crashing of the metal against the cliff drowned out her roar of anger. “I hate you!” she shouted. “I hate you!”

“Fine!” Striker shouted back, thought it really wasn’t fine at all. But he wouldn’t admit that to her. “Fine. But that won’t—” He retracted his Sting Blades and shoved Gipsy off of him angrily. “—change the fact that we are robots—you are a robot!”

“I am not a robot!” Gipsy screamed. With the flashing lightning and the thunder and the rain and the stormy ocean behind her, she looked rather insane. But then again, so did Striker. They both did. They both were. _What are we doing?_ he thought. _What am I doing? I can’t hurt Gipsy. We both know it. I love her. I can’t possibly—_

“You’re the robot.” Gipsy’s voice was low and angry and she spoke between huffs of frustration. “You’re the one who’s afraid to show emotion, who can’t even admit that you like me without getting embarrassed because you’re trying to be some stoic—I don’t know what you’re trying to be! But I hate it! I hate you, I hate—”

“You don’t hate me.” Striker got to his feet. Rain lashed against his visor and he wearily wiped it off with his hand. “You—” He shook his head. “You don’t hate me. You love me—”

“What—” Gipsy felt a flash of alarm and mortification.

“—just like I love you,” he finished.

Gipsy stopped mid-sentence.

 _Well_ , Striker thought. _I said it. This is it._

“I—” Gipsy’s mind was whirling with emotions and thoughts. She was angry, she was relieved, she was ecstatic, she was—she was—she didn’t know. She couldn’t figure it out. Striker was right, maybe she did love—okay, fine. She did. For sure. And he felt the same way? But she hated him. He hated her. They just beat each other up over a stupid remark, didn’t they? _Oh, no_ , she thought frantically. _I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something, I can’t just leave him hanging, what do I say what do I say what do I—_

“You don’t have to say anything.” Striker’s voice was oddly strained, as if it were just as hard for him to say these things as it was for Gipsy to say anything at all. “It’s true—isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Gipsy forced out.

“For me, at least.”

“And me?”

“Well?”

“It is.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.” Gipsy shrugged nervously. “Well, I know so. But—”

“But what?”

“I don’t know.” Gipsy flung her arms into the air. “I don’t know! What am I supposed to say?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything,” Striker replied.

Gipsy crossed her arms over her chest. “Then what do I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you realize how awkward this is?”

“Well, yeah. For both of us. Not just you.”

“Of course.”

“Are you going to say something?” Striker prodded her.

“What can I say?”

“Well, for starters, you could tell me what you feel the same way so I’m not embarrassing myself here,” Striker said, sounding very embarrassed indeed.

“I did.”

“Did you?”

“Not too long ago.”

“How?”

Gipsy shrugged. “You said things, I said things, I thought it was obvious.”

“So you do—”

“Feel the same way? Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Don’t talk like that.”

Striker tilted his head at her. “Talk like what?”

“Like … Australian.”

“What?” Striker forced out a laugh, despite the awkwardness of the situation. “I’m sorry, but I am an Australian Jaeger, so I can’t—”

“Aha!” Gipsy pointed at him. “Jaeger! You said Jaeger. So we’re not robots.”

Striker shook his head with what could only be described as the Jaeger equivalent of a sigh. “No, we’re not robots. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that, I was angry, I was confused—”

“You were afraid,” Gipsy finished quietly.

Rain lashed against Striker’s Angel Wings. “Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. “That too.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.” Striker shrugged. “Honestly I don’t. You, I guess.”

“Me?”

“Not like that.”

“Well then, how?”

Striker shrugged again. “I wasn’t really afraid of you, but … I guess, how you’d react. I didn’t want to make things awkward or ruin anything between—”

“You didn’t want to be embarrassed,” Gipsy murmured, almost to herself. “You didn’t want to pour your heart out to me and then have me reject you. Which would have been mortifying.”

“Pour my heart out?”

“Human thing.”

“Oh.” Striker looked down at the snow, then made a hmph noise and looked back up at Gipsy. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He paused, then added, “So … what about it? What are you thinking right now?”

Gipsy shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I—well, I did say I felt the same way. So …”

“So we’re good?”

“I guess so.”

Silence. But this time it wasn’t awkward or caused by fear or unease. Just silence. Striker and Gipsy looked at each other for a long while, both not sure what to say. But what was there to say? There was silence. Just silence. The rain began to thin out into a drizzle.

Then Gipsy made a strange noise, somewhere between a laugh and a huff of exasperation. She dropped to her knees, shaking her head in amusement. Striker paused for a second, then squatted down as well. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing—nothing, I just—” Gipsy tilted her head back, then sighed and shook her head again, laughing. “I just kind of find it funny, you know. This whole thing.” She waved her arm around. “Coming to Alaska, getting lost in a blizzard, almost dying, saving each other’s lives and then getting into a fight over some stupid remark about sentiency … I don’t know. That’s the kind of thing that I needed.”

“That you needed—”

“To get better.”

“Ah.” Striker tilted his head, then shifted so that he was kneeling as well. “I’m happy that you’re happy. Seeing you all broken and empty like that—”

“Yes, I know, I—” Gipsy looked down. “I’m sorry I was like that, I can’t imagine it would be easy for any of you.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Striker replied. “But that’s okay. We all understood.”

Gipsy shook her head. “No, no, you didn’t understand at all, and I’m sorry. But—do you want to understand? I can … I can tell you why I was like that. If you want to know.”

Striker was surprised, but didn’t hesitate: “Of course I want to know,” he replied. “I’ve been wanting to know since the whole thing with the island and you being all—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Sit down.” Gipsy shuffled toward the cliff and shifted around until she was sitting with her back against the stone face. Striker awkwardly sat down next to her. His Angel Wings still weren’t cooperating, and he laid back against them with a resigned sigh.

“Well?” Striker prodded.

“It’s … hard to explain. I think …” Gipsy hesitated.

“Take your time,” Striker told her.

“Right. I’m fine. It’s okay.” Gipsy’s visor flickered, like she was thinking really hard. Then she hummed a sigh and glanced over at Striker before finally beginning:

“So … I think it had something to do with uselessness. Like … being obsolete. The war is over, right? What am I anymore? I’m not needed. The kaiju are gone. I’m just as a hunk of expensive upkeeping and sentiency.” Gipsy shrugged. “Nobody really needs us anymore. We’ve done what we came here for. What are the humans going to do with us now?”

Striker shook his head. “If you’re thinking that they’re going to dismantle us and melt us down into scrap metal—”

“No, I know they won’t do that,” Gipsy replied. “They owe us too much. But they don’t owe us so much that they’re going to deplete their already paltry resources just to keep us going when we’re not needed anymore. So they’re going to send us to Oblivion Bay.”

“They owe us their entire world, Gipsy, they wouldn’t—”

“Would they?” Gipsy gave him a sharp look. “They’ve already sent plenty of Mark I’s. You know Cherno’s the only one left.”

“I know, but—” Striker shrugged, having no answer. “They haven’t sent us yet.”

“But that doesn’t mean they won’t. Anyway—” Gipsy continued. “You also know I’ve been sent to Oblivion Bay already, right?”

“Right,” Striker said quietly.

“You don’t—you don’t ever want to be sent there. It was—” Gipsy had to pause for a second to think of the word to say. “Bleak. Empty. There was nobody, nothing—after a few months even I felt like—I wanted to die. I wanted to fall to pieces like Tacit Ronin and Romeo Blue and join them in their graveyard and die. Then at least this emptiness inside of me would be gone. I wanted to be gone. I just wanted it to stop, the silence, the death, the stillness of the bay, it—it messed with my mind. There were times when I’d hate the humans, despise them for what they had done to me, for what they had done to the other Jaegers. I wanted to scream, I wanted to die, I wanted to cry but I couldn’t because crying was a human thing and—and I hated them. I hated myself. I hated everything.” She lowered her head. “It was just so silent. Always silent. Nothing moved, nothing spoke, nothing seemed alive but me. I was sitting in a bay surrounded by the corpses of Jaegers.” Gipsy shook her head slightly. “Sometimes I still hate them,” she whispered.

“The humans?” Striker’s voice was just as quiet.

“Yes.” Gipsy’s voice shook. “And—and I know I shouldn’t, I know I should be grateful that I’m even here because they made me, because they made me sentient at all and they were the ones who—well, they’re my creators, my parents, really, I hated myself for thinking that I hated them but I did hate them and I hated everything I just wanted to—” Gipsy broke off, her clenched hands shaking with tension. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—I just couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to feel like that again. I didn’t want to go back to the silence, to the death, to the—I couldn’t. I was scared. I still am.” Gipsy shrugged.

Striker struggled to find something to say. “I—” He broke off. What could he say? The story she had just told him—what could anybody say to that? “I’m sure—I’m sure Raleigh … he won’t let you get sent to Oblivion Bay.”

Gipsy barked out a harsh laugh. “He did once, who’s to say he won’t again?”

_Oh._

Striker quietly reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Fine,” he murmured. “Even if he does, I won’t. I won’t let any of us get sent to Oblivion Bay.”

Gipsy made a hmph noise. “There’s not much you can do against the entire human race. Enough weapons and even us four Jaegers wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“They wouldn’t be so cruel,” Striker tried to assure her.

“No, but—that’s not it,” Gipsy sighed. “That’s just part of it. Why I was like that, I mean.”

“Oh.” Striker shifted to get more comfortable. “Okay, then … go on.”

“Part of me felt like—” Gipsy paused, then shrugged. “Like I really wasn’t useful. Like they were right. Weren’t they? We are useless. What are we needed for anymore? I am outdated, obsolete, just a hunk of expensive—” She shook her head. “I felt like … like a robot. I am a robot. That’s all I ever was. Just a robot made for war. And now that the war is over … what am I? A robot. A hunk of useless metal.”

Striker felt like something was slowly squeezing around him, strangling him. _Oh, no._ He wanted to punch himself. He had told her—okay, granted, he had no idea about this at the time but—he felt so guilty … like it was his fault that she’d gone through that kind of pain. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Gipsy patted his hand, which was still resting on her arm. “It’s okay,” she assured him. After another pause, she went on: “I wanted to do something. I wanted to be piloted, but my pilots had other things to think about. I wanted to fight, but there was nothing to fight. I wanted to talk to someone, but—there was only you, and … and it was awkward, just the two of us. I couldn’t handle it. I slipped. I broke, I guess. I was so agitated—I was thinking too much, I was hating, I was screaming, I was afraid, so afraid. Uselessness, fear, anger, hatred, I just had so many emotions whirling around inside of me until—until there was nothing. I didn’t feel anything anymore. I didn’t want to feel anything. There was too much pain, and then there was none at all. I would have felt liberated, but I didn’t feel anything. You know?”

Striker nodded numbly. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to say.

“Oblivion Bay,” Gipsy said suddenly. “We need—we need to go there.”

“What?” Striker was startled. “Oblivion—but you said—you didn’t want to—why?”

Gipsy rubbed at her visor with her hand, clearing away the frost. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I really don’t. I just feel like we need to. For—for closure or something, but hey—I had a feeling that we needed to go to Anchorage, and I was right, wasn’t I? I’m okay now.” She laughed. But it was a hollow laugh.

“No,” Striker whispered, finally realizing. “You’re not really okay, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Gipsy said.

“Are you?” Striker shook his head. “You … you’re right—we need to go to Oblivion Bay.” He got to his feet. “We should go let the humans know. We can’t walk all the way to California ourselves.”

Gipsy nodded slowly. “I—well—all right.” She stood up as well. _I’m okay_ , she thought. _What is he talking about? I’m perfectly fine now._ She watched him warily for a second, then shrugged it off and followed him back to the Icebox. Whatever he meant by that, they were going to Oblivion Bay. That was all that mattered. Everything would be solved there.

Everything.

Well, she hoped.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Emo robots and hand-holding ahead! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Also Tacit Ronin because I love Tacit Ronin.

**Chapter Nine**  
It was like a ghost town.

It had the fog—the eerie mist that swirled around their legs, the jutting spires and dark ridges. The silence. The emptiness. Striker felt a chill just looking at it. _Oblivion Bay_ , he thought. He had always known of it, of course; it always lurked in the back of his mind, a fear that he knew he should have had but never really did, considering the fact he was the best Jaeger in the world. Striker had never had to worry about being sent to Oblivion Bay, nor was he actually sent there.

But now he was here.

He looked at Gipsy.

Her visor was flickering. It was flickering so fast, on and off— _uh oh_. “Are you all right?” Striker reached out his hand tentatively.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Gipsy pushed away his hand away, shaking. Her knees buckled and she flung out her hand against him, keeping herself from stumbling. Striker grabbed her wrist and awkwardly helped her regain balance. “I’m—don’t worry, don’t—” Suddenly she cried out in pain and pressed her hands against either side of her head, falling to her knees. “Don’t—”

“Gipsy?” Striker felt a flash of concern and he knelt down next to her, reaching out a hand. “Gipsy, what’s going—”

“No! No! Stop—” For a moment Striker thought she was talking to him, but then he realized she wasn’t even looking at him—she had her head between her hands, facing the ground. “Please—” She sounded afraid—her words were quick and desperate and scared—

“Gipsy—”

“Where are you going? Raleigh!” Gipsy’s right hand clutched at her left arm, fingers digging into the metal plating. “Don’t—look, Raleigh—please don’t leave me here, please. C-Come back! Where am I? Where are you? R-Raleigh—”

Striker reached out warily, worried. “Gipsy? Gipsy, listen to me—Raleigh is in Hong Kong, we can go back to him whenever we want, he’s not leaving you anywhere.” When his words didn’t make any difference, he shuffled forward and grabbed Gipsy’s elbow, trying to make her stop moving around. “Hey—”

Gipsy jerked away from him, stumbling in the piles of scrap metal and gears. “Wait—Raleigh? I’m not—what did I do? W-Was it the k-kaiju? Knifehead—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please don’t—I’ll make up for it, just don’t l-leave me here, please—”

Oh, no, no. _No._ Striker suddenly realized what was happening. She was reliving her memories. Her memories of Oblivion Bay. She was, in a sense, chasing the rabbit. Well, a giant, mechanical Jaeger rabbit. Gipsy thought it was real, that it was really happening. That her memories from years ago were happening again. She was—oh, no. Striker went after her, hand outstretched. “Gipsy—”

“They’re—I—they’re all dead, they’re all dead, they’re—” Gipsy’s visor flickered and buzzed. “I’m not dead, Raleigh, wait—y-you made a mistake, I’m not—please don’t leave me here, I’m not dead like them, I c-can fight, I’m not—” Gipsy’s fingers twitched with some unseen memory. “R-Raleigh?” Her voice began to grow quiet. “Please … I’m sorry, I don’t … I don’t want to—I didn’t mean to … I’m so sorry. Are you mad at me? Are—are—”

“Gipsy.” Striker grabbed her by the wrists, forcing her to stop thrashing around. “Gipsy, look at me. It’s Striker. It’s not real, okay? It’s not actually happening. You’re only reliving a memory. Raleigh is not mad at you, Raleigh loves you. Please—”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t—”

“Striker—”

“Gipsy—Gipsy?” Striker let go of her wrists, startled. “Gipsy! You’re—?”

As if just coming up from underwater, Gipsy sat up abruptly, visor jumping to 100%. “What—I don’t—what did I—Striker?” She sounded disoriented.

Striker was stunned for a moment. It took him a long time to find his voice, and when he did, it was uncertain, afraid of spooking Gipsy back into her memories. “You were … reliving your memories,” Striker explained. “Your memories of this—this place.” He shrugged slightly. “You didn’t sound very … well. Happy.”

Gipsy stared ahead, not at a particular thing but just—into the distance—emptily. Striker was afraid for moment that she had gone back to her previous state. But then she slowly turned her head to look at him and asked, “D-Did I say anything about Raleigh?”

Striker nodded slowly.

“Oh, God—” Her use of a religious word only made Striker more worried—usually she tried to keep away from anything that was strictly human. She put her head in her hands. “I s-said—I didn’t want h-him to go, right? And that I was s-sorry? Stuff like that?”

Again, Striker nodded.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she groaned. “I’m sorry you had to see that, I d-didn’t mean to—

“It’s okay.” Striker gazed at her, still concerned. “I didn’t blame you. This place is—” He shrugged. “It’s … scary. It would make sense that you were scared. I sure am.”

Gipsy tilted her head. “Are you r-really?”

Striker shrugged. “Yes. I—” He paused, then sighed. “Are you all right?”

“F-Fine.” Gipsy brushed a bit of metal off of her arm, looking determined. “Or I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about m-me.”

“Well …” Striker hesitated, then sighed again. “If you say so. Come on—” He held out his hand to her. “Let’s go.”

Gipsy took his hand and pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. Her grip was surprisingly tight. “No, we can’t go.” She stared at him intensely, still gripping his hand. “We can’t—we have to stay—just a little bit longer.”

“Stay?” Striker was surprised. “But—why? Your … your memories, you might get hurt, I don’t want to make you stay and torture yourself even more if—”

“I know, I know, b-but—” Gipsy shook her head dazedly. “We have to stay. There are things … things I n-need to see. To find. Please.”

Striker hesitated. “But … I mean … well, are you sure?” He was still wary of her having an episode like that again. If Oblivion Bay did that to her, he didn’t want to make her stay any longer, even if she did think she needed to.

“I’m sure. Not that long. Just a l-little bit.”

“Well …” Striker sighed. “All right. Fine. But if you start talking like that again, I’m yanking you right out of here, no questions asked. Okay?”

Gipsy managed a shaky laugh. “Mother hen.”

Striker shook his head. “I’m serious—”

“I know. And—thank you.” Gipsy turned away and began to walk, slowly. After a while, Striker was pulled after her, as she was still gripping his hand very, very tightly.

“Gipsy, uh …” Striker wiggled his fingers a little bit. “You’re still—”

“Oh, s-sorry.” Gipsy quickly released his hand and stepped back, flustered. “Sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realize I was—”

“No, it’s—it’s okay, you were just holding a little too t-tight, um—” Striker was just as embarrassed. He made an awkward noise, then tentatively reached out again. “Here—” He quietly took her hand, gently. “B-Better?”

Gipsy wiggled her fingers, but not in annoyance—happily, almost. “Right—um—Tacit Ronin,” she told him awkwardly, nodding. “We need t-to find Tacit Ronin. He’s here s-somewhere.”

“Tacit Ronin?” Striker tilted his head. “Why?” He was grateful that they had moved off the subject of their—their ... right. The subject of ... things.

“Something—something happened.” Gipsy looked determined to do whatever it was she needed to do, but wary at the same time. “I n-need to come to terms with it. It’s the only way I’ll ever—ever be really okay.” She shook a little bit. “I think ever s-since Oblivion Bay, I’ve never truly been okay, even b-before the war ended because of—because of th-this. I need to find Tacit R-Ronin.”

Striker made a humming noise. “All right, well … it shouldn’t be that hard to find him. His visor is pretty hard to miss.” He made a gesture near his head. “The spike and all that.”

“Right. Yes. He—I think he’s over there s-somewhere.” Gipsy pointed with her free hand toward a jumble of ragged dark metal to the their right. “I remember I h-had to stand to t-talk to him because the—the metal was too sharp—”

“Talk—” Striker gave her a sharp look. “Talk to him?”

Gipsy gave him a quiet shrug. “That’s p-part of it. He was … he was still alive, um, he was still sentient when I c-came here and we talked sometimes about—about things and he … told me things that I … I just couldn’t get out of m-my mind.”

“What did he tell you?” Striker asked quietly.

“Terrible—” Gipsy’s voice shook. “Terrible things. Did you know h-he … he wasn’t really, you know—I mean, he could still f-fight. It was just, he wasn’t modern enough, he w-wasn’t … wasn’t new enough, you know? He f-functioned perfectly. Tacit could still be in alive today if it weren’t f-for the fact that—that they thought he was obsolete, outdated, old but he w-wasn’t! He could fight, they just didn’t w-want him to.” Gipsy stopped and turned to Striker, voice choked with emotion. “Do you have any idea how—when I w-was here I—I thought maybe Raleigh had thought about m-me that way and that was why I was here and I hated him for it but—I don’t hate him. I don’t! I love Raleigh and s-sometimes I just feel so guilty about both that and the fact … the fact that I couldn’t s-save Tacit. I couldn’t. I tried, we both tried, he tried so h-hard but it wasn’t enough and I just—” Gipsy let out a loud, shuddering vent of air. “Striker, it was—I watched him die, I watched his sentiency f-fade away right in front of m-me and I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Striker reached out with his free hand and put a hand on her arm. “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” His voice was quiet though—unsure. But not because he doubted what he was saying. He just didn’t know how to react, what to say to a story like that. _Poor Tacit_. “There was nothing you could do.”

“Was there?” Gipsy’s grip on his hand suddenly grew tighter. “I could have t-talked to him, I could have—I don’t know, something, anything, but I didn’t, I didn’t and he died and it was all my f-fault and I—” She broke off. “And now he’s d-dead."

Striker stepped closer. “Hey, hey—not because of you. How could you have helped him? You were broken yourself, you were scared, you were confused, you didn’t know what was going on—how could possibly have begun to understand what Tacit was going through? No, Gipsy, it’s not your fault. Tacit didn’t deserve what happened to him but it is in no way your fault.”

Gipsy shook her head. “But I could h-have—I could have—”

“Could have what? There was nothing you could do. You said it yourself.” Striker forced himself to keep going. “He tried to keep himself alive, you said. And if he himself failed, then what do you think you could have done? Tacit Ronin’s fate is a tragedy, Gipsy, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are not responsible for any of it.”

“But—”

“Okay, look.” Striker sighed. “Did he blame you?”

“No, but—”

“Did he say anything about it being your fault?”

“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Do you think if it had been any other Jaeger but you, would things have changed?”

“Probably not, but—”

“But what, Gipsy? Tacit Ronin was going to die no matter what happened. It was just bad luck that you ended up getting sent here just as he faded away.”

Gipsy struggled to find an answer, but she couldn’t think of one. He—well, he was right. In a way. But it still didn’t chase away the lingering weight in her chest, the stone of guilt that she just couldn’t pick out. “Well, I—” She shook her head. “I still think … well. Fine. Maybe it wasn’t my f-fault, but there’s still something—” She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. “I can’t think of what it is, b-but I feel—I feel like I have to—”

Striker stepped back, letting go of her hand. “Gipsy, punch me in the face,” he told her.

“And—what?” Gipsy stared at him in astonishment. “What did you say?”

“Punch me in the face.” Striker shrugged. “Or in my chest, or shoulder, or anywhere. Just punch me. Or kick me, if that’s the way you want to go.”

“I—” Gipsy’s visor flickered in confusion. “Why?”

“Don’t ask. Just do it.”

“But I don’t want to punch you.”

“It’s just one punch, Gipsy. Do it.”

Gipsy held up her hands. “I’m not going to—”

Striker sighed. “You made me.” Then he stepped forward and quickly punched Gipsy across the face as hard as he could. Sparks flew and metal screeched with the pressure.

“Ow—what the—” A string of religious words and human expletives followed an angry shaking of her head. “What the _fuck_ —” She drew her arm back and slammed her fist into his face. Striker stumbled back against a pile of rusted machinery, his display buzzing and flickering a bit. Ouch. He rubbed at the slight dent in his face and awkwardly regained his balance. “Fucking—” Gipsy trailed off in a muttering of various human swear words.

“Heh. Good.” Striker hit his head gently a few times, trying to make his display settle. “Of course I’d much rather you have just punched me first, without me having to trigger you, but—”

Gipsy made a startled noise, as if just realizing what she had done. “Oh, no—” She reached out her hand to him. “Did I—did I hurt you? I’m sorry!” She looked much too worried for the fact that she had been the one to punch him. And besides, he had asked her to.

“No, I’m fine. Don’t worry. I just—” Striker brushed himself off and stood up. “How do you feel now?”

“How do I—how do _I_ feel?” Gipsy gave him a look.

“Yes. How do you feel?”

Gipsy began to respond, then stopped. Wait a minute. She thought about that for a second. How did she—how _did she_ … it was different. She felt different. Better. Purged, in a sense. Like all of her bad feelings had been washed out of her. She felt … clean. “Clean,” she said aloud.

Striker hummed in satisfaction. “Good. Then it worked.”

Gipsy turned to look at him. “What do you mean? What worked?”

“And your speech isn’t stilted anymore, that’s good. Hmm.” Striker felt rather proud of himself. “I thought it wouldn’t work, but it did. Great. Let’s go find Tacit Ronin now.”

“What—” Gipsy turned to follow him as they began to walk again. “What are you talking about? What worked? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. You punched me.”

“And how—”

“By doing so, you let all of your bad feelings—your emotions, the hatred and confusion and regret and anger and fear, all of it—you let it out, into one punch. At me. And now you feel a lot better, don’t you? Because you got rid of those feelings. You just needed to punch something, or kick something, to let it all go, and since I didn’t want you to damage the poor Jaegers that are already dead, you know …” Striker shrugged. “I was here. So. You punched me.”

“But—but—” Gipsy sputtered, feeling both angry at Striker and grateful to him at the same time. On one hand, she hated being manipulated like that. But on the other, well … it had worked, so she couldn’t really blame it. And he was only trying to make her feel better. She sighed and grumbled and reached out and grabbed his hand. “Mother hen.”

“You know you like it.”

“Only when it benefits me.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

“Shut up.”

They settled into a mutual silence. The only sound was the crunching of their feet against metal scraps, a screech and squeal every now and then when they disturbed something electric. Gipsy liked the silence. It wasn’t the total, complete, eerie silence that she had experienced when she was first sent to Oblivion Bay. This was different. It was … easy, comfortable. With Striker there, it didn’t seem empty and desolate. The silence was full of noise and emotion and thoughts they could both hear and tune out—and it was good. Very good.

“There’s Tacit Ronin.”

Gipsy almost jumped at Striker’s voice, she had gotten so used to the silence. “Oh, uh—where?”

“Right there.” Striker pointed with his free hand toward something that looked suspiciously like Tacit’s visor. “Or at least I think so. We should check at least, to make sure.”

“Can you—can you stay here?” she asked. “This is something I need to do … by myself.”

Striker nodded, not even trying to argue. Even to him, it was plenty obvious that this was a private matter. He let go of her hand and stepped back a little bit.

“Thanks.” She let out a quiet sigh, then lifted her head and forced herself to walk toward Tacit’s remains. _C’mon, Gipsy. You can do this. You have to do this._ Metal crunched under her feet. Her shoulders creaked a bit as she walked, swinging her arms like she always did. A bit of mist puffed toward her and she felt a strange chill run through her body.

Tacit Ronin’s head was lying on its side just in front of her. She bit back an anguished sigh and instead forced herself to quietly kneel down next to him. His visor was dark and scratched and dusty. Gipsy reached out with a shaking hand. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Hey, Tacit, it’s, um—it’s Gipsy, I … I know you can’t really hear me, considering you’re, well—dead, so …” She took a deep breath (or at least the Jaeger equivalent of one). “I just wanted to say … I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I wish I could have—could have done something but you never seemed to want to—but—anyway, I … I’m sorry.”

She sat back on her feet, metal joints creaking in the cold wind. “I don’t—I don’t really know what to say. What can I say? Nothing I do will make you come back to life and—that’s what I regret the most. Watching the life fade out of you like that, I … I’m so sorry. Nobody should ever—” Gipsy paused, thinking of what to say. “I’m just really sorry. I know that makes no difference, but—but I just thought …” She trailed off, and vented air in a sigh.

Then she jumped. _Was that_ —she looked closer. For a second it seemed like Tacit’s head had moved, as if he were still alive. 

But there was nothing. Just dust. Gipsy shook her head. _You’re seeing things. That’s enough._ She got up to leave.

But then she stopped.

A spark flickered across Tacit’s visor. A tiny bolt of lightning, a quiet buzz. His visor flashed, then darkened again.

Gipsy stared at him in shock.

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

She whirled around. “Striker!”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two things
> 
> 1) Tacit Ronin because hella
> 
> 2) Haha wow I cannot believe this fanfic is over I am so sad
> 
> 2.5) I'm going to write another one though lol don't you doubt me

**Chapter Ten**  
The wind ruffled Raleigh’s hair and sent a shiver through his body. He hugged his jacket a little tighter around his body and squinted through the sun at Gipsy. Mako stood beside him, arms tightly over her chest and shivering slightly. They both looked up at Gipsy, who was kneeling next to the cliff, leaning down over them. Raleigh shrugged a little. “Well?”

“Well?” Gipsy repeated. “What?”

Raleigh sighed. “Well, are you mad at me?”

Gipsy shook her head ever so slightly. “No. Not anymore. I thought I was, but—no.” She let out a happy, mechanical hum. “Everything I was mad or annoyed or conflicted about that involved you, I’ve either forgiven or forgotten. I’m not mad at you. I’ve … accepted things.”

Mako stifled a little smile. “It is because of him, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing over Gipsy’s shoulder. Raleigh and Gipsy both turned to see what she was pointing at.

Striker. Ah, of course. He was standing knee-deep in the ocean, arguing with Crimson Typhoon. Or—wait, no, he wasn’t arguing with Crimson Typhoon. There were a couple of engineers sitting on Crimson’s shoulder. Striker was arguing with the engineers, Crimson was just there to give them a height boost.

“Yes,” Gipsy admitted, turning back around. “Yes, it is. There are a lot of things that have happened because of him.”

Raleigh closed his eyes briefly and let out a long sigh of air, then opened them again. “So what’s the deal with you two, anyway?” he asked.

Gipsy shrugged. “I don't know.”

Raleigh raised his eyebrows. “You love him.”

“I wouldn't say that. Love is a human concept,” Gipsy replied, tilting her head. "But yes, I suppose, or at least as close as you can get to it as a Jaeger."

“Hm.” Raleigh’s expression was difficult to read. “Well. Well, I—”

Gipsy snorted. “Don’t you go all protective on me. I get enough mother-hen from Striker, I don’t need an overprotective father from you.”

Raleigh sputtered. “What—?”

“Let it go, Raleigh,” Mako said, trying not to laugh. “Love is love, even if it is giant metal robots.”

“But—”

“Raleigh.” Gipsy shook her head in amusement. “I’m a thousand times taller and two thousand times stronger and heavier than you are. You really can’t stop me, even if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to _stop_ you—”

“Yes, that’s what I said, Raleigh. Weren’t you listening?” Gipsy tilted her head.

Mako had to press her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. Raleigh looked very annoyed, but also amused, but also exasperated at the same time. “Okay, okay—fine. Do what you want. You’re a free independent Jaeger who don't need no pilot, yeah, I got it.” He turned around and began heading back to the Shatterdome.

Gipsy and Mako exchanged a look. “Men—” Mako muttered, and turned to follow Raleigh—

“But if he hurts you I will shred him,” Raleigh said suddenly, whipping back around.

Gipsy snorted with laughter. “Whatever you say.”

“Hey! Hey, Gipsy!” Cherno Alpha appeared next to her out of nowhere. “Come on, it’s happening, you don’t want to miss it—”

“Oh!” Gipsy straightened up. “Okay—is it—?”

“Yes!” Cherno grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her out to the ocean. “Hurry!”

“All right—” Gipsy quickly waved good-bye to Mako and Raleigh, then splashed into the ocean after Cherno. The water sloshed around her legs and sent up massive sprays of white foam, speckling her visor. But she didn’t mind. Cherno had a good reason to be excited. Gipsy definitely was.

“Hey!” Striker greeted them when they got there. He glanced at Gipsy, then looked back down. “I think the engineers finally did it. We should probably stand back a little, though.”

“Right, right.” Crimson, Cherno, Striker and Gipsy all took a collective step back. Striker stumbled a little, but Gipsy’s arm darted out and caught him before he fell. Crimson and Cherno exchanged a look while Striker tried unsuccessfully to regain his balance and slipped again. “Ow, jeez—”

“Idiot,” Gipsy muttered and punched him in the shoulder, which coincidentally knocked him back onto his feet. “How did you ever fight kaiju with your two left feet?”

Striker glared at her. “Well, excuse me for messing up my T-16 Angel Wings—which are for balance—saving your life.”

“Yeah, well, I saved your life back, so technically we’re even and you have no right to—”

“I do have a right, since I brought you back from the dead you ungrateful—”

“And then almost died so I had to save you—”

“Yeah, and you didn’t seem to have a problem—”

“Either way, it was your choice to save my life in the first place, you could have just kept your precious Angel Wings safe instead of—”

“What? And just let you die? Are you saying you wanted me to just leave you to d—”

“Gipsy, Striker, both of you shut up!” Crimson snapped.

Gipsy and Striker glared at each for a few more moments, then grumbled and turned toward the shadowed white shape that lay on the beach in front of them. Sparks flew and cables hummed and lights flickered. Despite their bickering, both Gipsy and Striker found themselves waiting expectantly, excitedly—and Crimson and Cherno were both pretty pumped up too. All four of them looked down at the dark shape eagerly.

Metal creaked. Electricity buzzed along thick black cables. There was a shrill squeal of static, then a contented mechanical hum. Sand shifted and rolled as the dark shape began to move. Slowly, with deliberate movements and a slightly confused air, it raised its head and gazed at each of the four Jaegers in turn. Sunlight shot through the clouds and illuminated an orange streak, so brightly it was almost blinding. When its gaze came to rest on Gipsy, it made a quiet sound of recognition.

Gipsy would have smiled if she could. “Hi,” she said.

The dark shape was slowly being outlined in the sun as it peeked out from behind the clouds, and now the Jaegers could clearly see that it was really a dirty white color, not a sooty gray.

“Where am I?” Its voice was oddly regal—royal, as if its owner carried itself with dignity and respect. Even having not been used for several years at least, it was still clear and cold and deep and formal, reminiscent of the ancient warriors it had been named after.

Gipsy was the one who finally answered. “Hong Kong.” She tilted her head, again wishing that she could smile, because she really, really felt like that it would complete the moment. “Welcome back,” she added, lowering her head in a nod of respect. “Tacit.”


End file.
